Fears
by TruffleWings
Summary: Twoshot, plus a bonus chapter/bonus chapters. What are the characters from Ace Attorney's true fears? Characters include Miles Edgeworth, Kay Faraday, Maya Fey, Ema Skye, Klavier Gavin, Shi-Long Lang, Franziska von Karma, Diego Armando and Godot.
1. Chapter 1

A/N This 'story' will be in two parts. The first chapter has Miles Edgeworth's, Maya Fey's, Kay Faraday's, and Ema Skye's fears. The next chapter will have Shi-Long Lang's, Trucy Wright's, Klavier Gavin's, Diego Armando's and Godot's fears. Yes, Diego Armando AND Godot. I don't think this is considered angst so it's just… general. Basically about what the characters fear most.

EDITED as of June 18 2010, for grammatical errors. And as an added note, I don't like Ema's. Just saying.

**Miles Edgeworth**

Anyone who knew Miles Edgeworth would say that his greatest fear would either be earthquakes or elevators. Less well-meaning individuals might stifle a laugh at this point. Fainting! At the slightest tremor! Tsk, tsk, really now, that Demon Prosecutor isn't so scary after all, is he?

Yes, no one but Miles Edgeworth himself knew where the real haunts, the real specters lay, stalking his soul, slowly ripping it out piece by piece... His fear of elevators or even earthquakes could not compare to the ghoul that hovered overhead.

It had always been within him. And then it was kindled to a roaring furnace when the tanned murderer pleasantly spoke to him.

"You despise criminals. I can feel it. You and me… we're the same."

_You and me… we're the same._ Damon Gant, the man who had been found guilty of murder, among other things: tampering with the crime scene, blackmail… the list goes on. And after his confession, he had turned to Miles and told him that they were the same.

Would that be the same for his former mentor, Manfred von Karma? The man Edgeworth had always looked up to, always admired… the prosecutor had wanted to be like Manfred; just as perfect and just as immaculate. And then he had found out what his guardian was really like: a murderer. A blackmailer. A forger of evidence. He was like Gant.

So was Edgeworth destined to follow that thread? The black, dark bond that surged back to his past, linking him with those killers. Would he never be rid of them? Forever tied to what he thought were the scum of the earth.

Despite what Wright and Lana had said after that trial, Miles knew he could not trust himself. A prosecutor alone cannot defeat the surge of crime—he needed a weapon. And the answer that they had presented was that he couldn't do it alone, but unlike Gant and von Karma, Edgeworth had… friends.

Naivety. Lana Skye must have been catching the Wright fever.

It seemed so perfect a solution. Yet if he looked at it with unfeeling eyes, it was the most innocent. And the most flawed. In an ideal situation, an ideal world, it may work. But Miles existed in reality—the grim world of scum and criminals, selfishness in every crack of the pavement, horrors in every corner of the alleyway. An unforgiving world. An unyielding world.

Such solutions were a farce. Such people were fooled by a paper-thin mask, with just enough substance to merely dull the ugliness of the world and give off a glimmer of hope.

Darkness cannot be denied and he had a darkness in his heart. Deep and abiding, the hatred for criminals though just was so huge that it was frightening. Frightening because it may consume the rest of him, or what little he had left.

There was a gaping pit in front of him, bottomless and hungry. There was, as far as he could see, no alternative path. So he merely endeavored to walk, as slowly as he could, inch by inch, to the dark future.

Becoming what he despised—that was his true fear.

And the scariest part of it all was the inevitability of it all.

**Maya Fey**

Pleased, cheeky, foolishly optimistic…

They thought she didn't hear their words.

She did.

Whenever she heard them, she was happy. It showed that they liked her. She was likeable.

Whenever she heard them, deep inside, a drop of sadness slowly appeared. It was so small she didn't notice. But it was because it also showed that they did not look any further.

What had the Nickel Samurai said? _There are always thousands, millions of sides to a single individual. We must seek out these sides and love them, no matter how strange or quirky, because it is all of this that makes up the character. _Maya recalled the phrase with perfect clarity.

Most people only ever saw one side, or maybe two. It was usually 'Oh, she's such a happy-go-lucky girl!' (Gluttony went under happy-go-lucky) and maybe a 'She's so strong. Mentally, I mean.'

And though these two observations were true enough, there was more to Maya than just that. The mental strength was valid enough—but the happy part. Happiness was a mood, and moods pass. How did they turn this into a… a trait? They meant to say, she supposed, that she was simply an overall content girl, which was fine.

The main thing she griped with was that they looked no further. They had seen, what, two of a thousand facets to her personality?

And Maya was also scared that because they looked no further and said no further, she might disappear and what would remain was a two-dimensional placeholder.

Her train of thoughts was suddenly halted as the tracks ahead were blasted apart.

She smiled. No, not everyone thought that was all she was.

Sis, Pearls, Nick… they knew who she was.

Then Maya realized that her utmost fear was not becoming what other people thought of her. It was losing those people who knew who she really was.

In a way, she supposed, she had already lost Sis.

In a way, she supposed, she couldn't lose anyone.

But in the same way that she had lost Mia and in the very way the spirit channeling made Death seem trivial, Maya also knew that she could stave danger off of those she loved.

No, spirit channeling is not an escape from pain. The essence of _losing_ someone was not that she could never speak to them again; it was that the person himself (or herself) would be missing out on the greatest parts of life. It was that the person would despair, being apart, away from the others in life. It was that the person could no longer fulfill their hopes and dreams.

It was, quite simply, that the person would die.

But if Maya Fey could help it, their deaths would have come after a fulfilled lifetime.

**Kay Faraday**

Night is her best friend. Thievery is her life. Truth is her dream.

There is no time for doubt. There is no room for fear.

Slowly, silently, the raven takes wing and plunges into a world of conspiracy, secrecy, and corruption. A dip of its dark feathers and it plunges from the light of the full moon into the true darkness.

A black raven against the inky night.

And when it departs, with a smile at a job well done, it escapes with conspiracy, secrecy, and corruption hidden under its cloak.

The press never ceases to print. Paper after paper of stories are made. Almost always, it is along the lines of 'Acclaimed Business Corporation Revealed to Have Dealings with Undesirable Contacts'.

And at the centre of it all, one word: Yatagarasu.

A superhero, to the rescue! Da-da-da-daaaaah! Duum dum-dum-daaaaah! Drum roll… Lights... no camera… action! Here comes the famous Thief of Truth, Kay Faraday! Whoops, I mean the anonymous Yatagarasu.

Yes, it is important to remain anonymous. A mysterious figure, shrouded in… mystery.

But yes, Kay Faraday is the Yatagarasu. Or, more accurately, the second Yatagarasu. It is her job to ensure that lies are ripped apart, to show the truth that is carefully stashed away under the fabric.

Once, when she had been showing off to Miles Edgeworth by climbing an ancient oak and then doing a back flip down (she had to keep fit—she was the Great Thief, after all), he had shouted at her. What if she had gotten hurt? Kay always laughs at the memory. And then she had told him she wouldn't, and didn't he think she was fearless? Edgeworth had looked aside for a moment, as though pondering whether to fuel her ego, or perhaps mull over his own cowardice (okay, that was out of line. Kay understands his phobia towards earthquakes perfectly), and then conceded that she was brave for a young girl.

He still doesn't know that she wasn't that brave.

People have their own fears—it was just that heights or daredevil stunts weren't one of hers.

But when it comes to her _true fear_, the one that leaves her shivering in the darkness of her room, that renders her frozen in an otherwise innocuous moment, she is less than courageous.

Her fear is getting caught.

Superficial, selfish… those were words that could describe her fear. Kay acknowledges that.

But it doesn't stop her blood from freezing the moment to possibility presents itself. Coward. She is a coward.

It isn't the prison time. It isn't even the disappointment or despair she may see on her friends' faces that presents her with terror. It is the thought that the truth, like the Bad Badger, would squirm out of her grasp. And unlike the heroic Blue Badger, defender of Justice, she would be sitting in a cell and staring at a blank, grey wall, unable to lift a finger.

Kay thinks and she knows that she is the only one who can truly stem to flow of lies and carefully pick out the truths from the locks and safes that striven to keep it from the world.

Alright, she's not a lone defender of integrity. Miles Edgeworth, Shi-Long Lang, even Gummy. But what she did went passed the law and into the shadowy uncertainty of crime. She dared.

But maybe her daring would turn out to be folly.

And maybe it was a fatal mistake.

**Ema Skye**

There are two "Emas": Happy, young Ema and the grumpier, detective Ema.

Similarly, there are two "Lanas": Cold Lana and warm Lana.

But it is both the "Emas' " fears that one of the "Lanas" dies away. It is Ema's fear that Lana becomes cold and distant, and the warm Lana slowly frosts over, with no hope of ever returning…

Fire to frost.

Perhaps, in a distant past, she feared something else. But that was because Ema had never imagined the possibility that Lana could turn icy and non-responsive. Now, she had been introduced to the possibility all too intimately. All because of one incident.

SL-9.

Lana had tampered with the crime scene, pleading with Damon Gant to help her. He agreed, not out of a pure desire to aid a friend, but to gain leverage over Lana for potential blackmail. Lana, knowing this, agreed—why? The reason was simple. The same reason that forced her to alter the crime scene.

Ema.

After entering the room, the circumstances that met her there seemed to indicate… that _Ema_ had been the murderer. So her sister tried to drive suspicion away from her—not knowing that Damon Gant had already altered the crime scene once to indict Ema. After that incident, Lana, the warm Lana, the caring sister, turned into cold Lana.

After Lana was cleared of all charges for a related murder and the truth was revealed, she had told Ema that being distant was the only way she could make it through those painful years; the most painful years of Ema's life.

Their parents had died when both sisters were young; the closest thing Ema had to a loving mother, and the very best friend that she had was Lana. But in those years, it seemed as though Lana had disappeared.

And if that were to happen again… it was horrible to even contemplate. To be completely isolated, unable to get through to the person closest to you in your entire life…

As her heart tightened, windpipes constricted at the very thought, Ema dispelled all thoughts on the touchy subject.

Slowly, her thoughts were forced onto more favorable subjects and time returned from the twilight of her fears.

A/N I enjoyed writing Kay's fear the most. Maybe it's because her name is just too cool. Haha, no. Edgeworth was also fun to write. Ema's… just took a long time to think about and I didn't really enjoy writing it, to be honest. Maya's was ookay. So, did you readers think those would be their true fears? Anyway, I was originally going to release all the character's fears in one chapter but decided to release it in two-parts because I was… impatient and wanted to feel like I was actually accomplishment something. Heh heh heh. So what fears do you think the characters in the next chapter will have? Lastly and most importantly, review!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N In the first chapter, I said I'd be doing Shi-Long Lang's, Trucy Wright's, Klavier Gavin's, Diego Armando's and Godot's fears, but I realized that I didn't include Franziska von Karma (who is AWESOME), and that I don't know how to write Trucy. So, instead of Trucy, I'll be writing Franziska von Karma. Got it memorized? So this chapter will have Shi-Long Lang, Franziska von Karma, Klavier Gavin, Diego Armando and Godot. There will be Miego (Mia/Diego) for Diego Armando's part, though Mia doesn't make an appearance. (And Godot's.)

Disclaimer: I own Capcom and all its characters, including Ace Attorney. …Wait a minute. Eh heh heh. You do know what sarcasm is, right?

**Shi-Long Lang **

History has a way of repeating itself.

Past incidents find the strength in themselves to force their way through the tangled web of Time. Who'd waste effort in doing that anyway? But nevertheless, it is a fact.

History has a way of repeating itself.

And there is one very unfortunate incident that has occurred far back in the generations of Lang that Shi-Long Lang _never_, of all things, wants to recur. Of course, it is this very fear that makes the past all the more eager to reoccur. Thus is the way of life; to play out in the most unfortunate way when one wants it to go the other.

With this in mind, Interpol agent Shi-Long Lang makes it a point to stop mulling on about it—but he has never been good at that sort of thing. His mind turns against itself.

Just one investigation, gone wrong—years and years of faithful service rendered to smithereens. Whenever Lang thought about the perpetrator, thought about whoever had caused the whole mess, his blood boiled and his lips pulled back in a growl that revealed sharp canines. Someone along the line had rigged the Lang family up for a fall…

This is his fear.

He tries not to think about it. But he does.

Lang Zi says: The utmost pinnacle of control is the control of one's mind.

Looks like he hasn't reached that level yet. But Shi-Long will try, because it is the only thing he can do. His family has fallen and he is a lone wolf, the only one who can restore its name.

But once restored, it may fall once more. Again, his mind returns to the subject matter, unfailingly, betraying itself with such thoughts. Perhaps it is foolish to think that once the thought is borne upon the winds of consciousness, it is more liable to come true, but Shi-Long refuses to take any chances.

As the years go by, he gains more and more confidence in achieving his goal, and he places more and more trust into the people under him. The foundations of a strong wall. His subordinates. Is he making the same mistake that the Lang family made so many years ago? Was it wrong to place so much faith into his underlings? He would always protect them, yes—but was it truly wise to not meticulously check every single piece of evidence? Because it was perhaps borne from this trust that contributed to the downfall of his house.

And Shih-na… he had _trusted_ her. She turned out to be a mole, a spy sent by that smuggling group. He sure knew how to pick 'em. Then, stupidly, he protected her once again, taking the bullet meant for the white-haired woman into his own leg. An idiot, that's what Lang is. This ridiculous farce of a bond between superior and subordinate—all toppings and no cake.

But he can't help but be the idiot that he is and, even after an incident like that, put his faith into his underlings.

He snorts to himself. Fine, if that's how it is, that's how it is. This fallacy that simultaneously has the potential to hinder or further his goal, and to make history repeat once again.

Bring it, he thinks.

**Franziska von Karma**

Perfection.

She was perfection. No more, no less.

No one could contest that the whip-wielding prosecutor was anything but a prodigy, a perfect prodigy. No one in the pool of people she had met could honestly profess that they were not even a little afraid of her. No one could admit that they didn't envy or admire her, even if it were just a tiny bit.

Because she was perfect.

Franziska von Karma was raised to be perfect, in a household of perfection, with a father of perfection, with an education of perfection. And no one should contest that. No one should have the right to take that away from her, tear apart her strong foundations, her connections, and then run away with a goofy smile on their stupid little imperfect faces. They shouldn't be given the liberty to shame her and her history, her _family_, then melt her little brother to soft toffee of imperfection and put her perfect father behind the bars of a ridiculous prison for murder, even staining his perfect win record. Because perfection does not need to cheat; perfection does not need to murder; perfection does _not_ conceded to lucky idiots on the defence bench.

Seeing that this was her line of thinking, you might be inclined to think that her fear was that she _was not_ perfect.

This is false. It is a lie, and you are a fool to believe it.

Franziska von Karma had no illusions.

_(Franziska von Karma has no illusions.)_

She was not afraid of losing her perfection, because she was perfect and would always be perfect. It didn't matter what happened.

_(She is afraid. Not fearful that she is not perfect, but that others may find out her imperfections. Frightened that others may look past her cold yet fiery exterior and peer into her not so perfect self.)_

Foolishly foolish fools with foolish follies and foolishly hung around with foolhardy foolishly foolish fools were a nuisance. Soon, the only people she was surrounded by were fools. Her little brother was turned even more foolish with his foolishly foolhardy fool of a friend of a defence attorney of his childhood. She detested such people, who had the cheek to cross her, to shame her.

_(Around her are people either too scared of her to talk, or smart-alecks that fear her whip but still persist in annoying her. Miles Edgeworth is one of these people, and of him she is afraid. Because in her current state, he is the closest friend she has, and family bonds persists when she tries to discard him like a dirty rag. Because one day, she may break and then they will know she isn't so perfect after all. And on that day, there should be no one around to see her imperfections. Except that there will be because he is her brother.)_

She was fearless, and would tear at anything with the whip that Manfred von Karma had gifted her on her fifteenth birthday. Every other day, she would go and visit the State Penitentiary and when she returned to Germany, she would write letters. It was ridiculous, putting her father in prison. He was the same as always, strict and formidable, and she would promise him that she would avenge him, follow in his footsteps as faithfully as a dog.

_(The whip she holds as a reminder and a habit. A reminder of her father. She visits him often; it is expected of her, and still she is tied down by family bonds, unable to tear away from the formal man that raised her._ _There, she keeps a façade, knowing that he, too, keeps her at an arm's length, watching her with those inscrutable eyes, assessing her. Finding her weaknesses. And she pretends to obey him, following in his footsteps as loyally as a dumb dog.)_

No, Franziska von Karma had no fears.

_(No, Franziska von Karma is not the fearless, lashing woman that almost everyone sees. One day, alone in a corner perhaps, she will look into the mirror, past the icy blue eyes and into the imperfections that lie within; into the foolish human that she is born into.) _

**Klavier Gavin**

What he longed for was the truth. He longed for a lot of other things, though; things that could not be bought by wealth or brought by charm.

He also feared many things. But what he feared was not what others might have thought. Perhaps, one of the more shallow ones thought he feared loss of love by his fans, or the loss of his wealth. Others more well informed may have thought he feared more of his close ones leaving his side—leaving because the law snatched them away, because they had erred in a flight of greed or passion. There were others, still, that thought he feared becoming what so many he had loved had become; monsters, uncaring and selfish, cold with the unforgivable crimes they had committed heavy on their souls.

Naturally, they were wrong.

He did not fear indifference of fans or bankruptcy (though it would admittedly be inconvenient) because he had made a rock band not for popularity, but for love of music, and money was overvalued anyway, as naively idealistic as that sounded. He didn't fear others turning to the ugly side of humanity (perhaps he did, a little, but he knew he should not), but he felt pity for them because if they had faulted, they had faulted and that was that. Nothing could redeem them. He perhaps feared turning into a demon of murder and heartlessness, but not much because he thought that despite the corruption around him, he would not fall prey. And if he did, he would be rightfully brought to justice. Society would be safe.

What Klavier Gavin, god of rock, prosecuting prodigy and glimmerous fop, feared above all was helplessness.

At the sidelines, unable to retaliate as a criminal walks free, as the judge bangs his gavel down with an irrefutable 'Not Guilty', as he gropes around in his case files for just _one more_ point to smash the defence down and bring justice.

Or the other way round: maybe as he wins his case, all the while knowing that the defendant was _innocent_, and he wants to just _destroy_ his own case, smash it into bits and pieces, but he _can't_. Because neither he nor the defence has the stupid, damned last piece of decisive evidence.

Either way, the criminal would be let off, like a slippery fish freeing itself from a fishing hook.

This was exactly why he became a prosecutor—to bring justice. But sometimes the truth stays just out of reach. Sometimes you can't do anything but watch and hate yourself for it. Sometimes you just have to sit in your office, staring at the cases of guitars along the walls, unseeing, and just wonder why the world is arrange in such a way that the guilty can go scot-free.

Klavier did not understand the mindsets of some people, no matter how much he tried. Like… like his brother. Or anyone that just did their job like a robot, no emotions and no regrets. And executed it for the sake of just going through the motion, or worse, for a perfect win record.

A 'perfect win record'.

Klavier always scoffed at the phrase and reeled inwardly in disgust.

_It doesn't matter if he's innocent._

_I have a record to maintain. _

_You're too idealistic for you own good. Look into the real world, kid. Guilty or innocent… it's all the same to me. _

Blatant. Harsh. Stupid.

His fear happened everyday. And everyday he was forced to crack a smile, as if the everything was fine. Because it was his job.

And everyday, someone walks free…

Everyday, an innocent is hanged…

Everyday, Klavier Gavin curls up in his king-sized bed and feels something cold settle in his stomach.

Because he can do nothing about it all.

**Diego Armando**

Sipping his coffee, Diego Armando sprawled himself over the office couch, looking up at the ceiling. It was late at night and he was probably the only one left at the office. All in a day's work, though—mysterious client calls him mid-afternoon for a trial that started the very next day at 9 in the morning: yup, just the usual. And it was kind of sad that the previous thought wasn't sarcasm. Diego sighed, flipping through the stack of clipped papers that he held in his free hand, taking another chug of coffee.

No good. Nothing would go into his head, not even with the mug filled to the brim with heaven clutched in his hand.

Diego hit his head with the papers, as if he hoped the type would be absorbed into his brain and through his dark mane of hair. Well, he would just have to wing it in court.

One reason he couldn't seem to remember anything was the late hour and the tiny, _miniscule_ writing on the sheets of research. The other was a certain person that had been occupying his thoughts for the past hour. (Well, the past few hours, but he had still managed to concentrate on the task at hand.)

No prizes for guessing whom that was.

Everyone at the office knew; it wasn't like his flirting was reserved only when the two of them were there. _She_ knew, obviously. And she was driving him crazy. It was funny, almost, how the two loves of his life conflicted. Coffee was hot and bitter (well, proper coffee was, anyway), and each taste was heavy with the black magic. _She_ was sweet, yet cold, and each time he teased her or flirted with her, she would rarely let out a blush; when she did, it was a light one that gently gave her cheeks some much needed colour.

Mia Fey was amazing.

He loved her.

Sure, she pushed him away, but persistence pays off. It always did. Diego didn't know how much he had been missing out in life before he met Mia Fey. This wasn't overstating it—it was true. Colour flooded into his life when she came—no, _definition_ flooded into his life. Everything came into a brilliant focus, making room, edging away from her. And so she became the centre of it all.

Diego was convinced that he had _not_ been living before she stepped in.

Oh, there were brief moments of clarity with Mia Fey's absence. In court, for example, with an impossible case and adrenaline surging through him as he struggled for that _one_ piece of evidence. Or when he made an exceptional new blend, pouring it into his favourite mug and taking a sip of that _amazing_ brew. But it was a kaleidoscope around Mia, and each pattern sucked his vision in to focus on her.

So, if he had been dead before she came… then he would die when she left, harder than ever.

The thought made him choke on the coffee he was drinking and twist his gut into unsolvable knots. He could _feel_ it; the grey that would cloud in, settle into his mind, choke his wits and bring him down like a deadweight. Diego knew this was a shadow of what would happen if she… well, in a job linked with law, surrounding by suspects, criminals… it was dangerous.

It took Diego a while to realized that he had dropped his coffee mug on the carpet, the liquid spilling out like light from a window.

He didn't pick it up.

Shakily, he tried to laugh off his suddenly morbid thoughts. The combination, he thought, of the desperate sleepiness and the blackest of coffees had got him thinking about the unthinkable. It wasn't relevant; it couldn't be, because the probability of something as dramatically dreadful as that taking place was as low as him giving up coffee. Diego wouldn't let it happen if he could help it. And he could help it.

Slowly, slowly, the pessimist in him was lifted and thrown into the winds of sleep as slumber overtook his mind.

In the short, dim moments betwixt a slight drowse and heavy sleep, he smiled slightly to himself.

Because such a thing as ridiculously impossible as what he had been pondering simply could not occur.

**Godot**

There is nothing to say.

He has nothing left.

He _is_ nothing.

Not even a broken, empty shell of himself—he is oblivion.

Because everything he has feared has come to pass.

A/N And that's it for this twoshot. Although, if you want me to write about a specific character I may add a bonus chapter or something if I'm interested. My favourite was… Godot's. The shortness is absolutely addicting. Okay, okay, I'm lazy… Franziska's was fun to write as well, though. Klavier's felt like a mix between Edgeworth's and Kay's…? It was a bit of an odd mishmash of present and past tense, though. Hope it was okay. Lang was an interesting new look at things, and Diego was just pure Diego with coffee and Mia. The irony right at the end was… grr… frustrating. Because Mia died. And Godot was born. Argh. Why, oh why, did such a sad story have to occur? Well, I suppose it wouldn't have been so endearing if it went any other way, but still… Alright, back to business. First order of business for you guys is to drop a review. Go ahead and click that button—you know you want to.


	3. Bonus 1

A/N Here's the bonus chapter for all of you to devour. And just two hours before I reach the airport—hooray! I'd like to thank the reviewers **Yuki-san loves KKM **and the anonymous reviewer **Mistress**, and dedicate this chapter to them for requesting these characters: Apollo Justice, Trucy Wright, and Phoenix Wright. Now, enjoy!

**Apollo Justice**

He was a foundling child, lost, abandoned, with only a bracelet to show for it. The one thing that tied him to his family. At first, he hadn't known of the bracelet's importance; of how it was a heirloom or of the powers that he would come to realize because of it. He had just known that he had always owned it, that perhaps it was just one of those trinkets you buy that you eventually forget about.

Apollo didn't know who his parents were, or if he had any siblings. But somehow, he was never really curious. Sure, he asked, to no avail, but only as a child does for something to say. It was unnatural, one might say.

Then as he grew up, he stopped thinking about the past altogether, living with his foster family in the present. He decided that it didn't matter anyway; what's done was done, and even if his family had abandoned him then, he was probably better off with people who actually loved him as he was.

Apollo decided his own future, and he didn't need any shadows from the past to influence his decisions. He wasn't callous, nor insensitive—he was simply… well, he didn't really know what it meant. Only that maybe his parents had a good reason, maybe they didn't, but he probably would never find out and there was no use worrying.

So he decided to become a defense attorney; maybe of some inborn desire to protect the weak from being abandoned once more, or perhaps that would simply a purely romantic notion of no consequence.

Or maybe it was because he wanted to be needed.

Maybe he cared more than he thought. Maybe he'd kept all his insecurities locked away in a deep chest in his mind, hidden in a dark corner of his conscience.

Actually, Apollo thought, staring deep into himself, it was true that he didn't care for the identity of his parents.

But this would carry even further—it was not because he was agnostic, but for the opposite reason. He _feared_ it. Feared the knowledge.

He _cared_. It was a crime in itself. Because he cared, he _hurt_. Was in pain.

Apollo _feared_. Not because he had been unwanted by them, but because of what they would think of him now. Sure, he'd been abandoned—but he'd been a mere baby then, and he knew whatever reason they had wasn't because of _him_ as an individual, as a personality. He feared _not_ fitting in—now he did, at least. Because he was at the age that his character forms up, and all the blame, the resentment can be placed solely on what his personality attracts.

They said he was a nice, easy-going boy, though a bit too passionate at times. A good description, a desirable one.

But what comes will come and Apollo would have no way to halt the passage of time. All he could do was cling, cling to the comforting thought that he might just be just as they said and liked for it all.

**Trucy Wright**

Trucy was born to magicians, raised by magicians, and abandoned by magicians. She was born to _be_ a magician.

She had learned the tricks of the trade; sleight of hand, disappearing acts, and the works of a gun (namely, shooting it and hitting the centre of a coin tossed into the air from fifty paces). It never crossed her mind to become anything else—even with defense attorneys, prosecutors and detectives surrounding her everyday.

The young girl, therefore, couldn't even bear to think what would happen if she failed, as a Gramarye, with so many expectations built around her like a strong bulwark surrounding a central, spiraling tower.

But she didn't fear not becoming a magician. She tried not to think in the long run, shunned all dark thoughts of it, how _lost_ she would feel for it was her entire life.

Instead, every time before she went up on that pulsing stage in the dimly lit Wonder Bar, she would smile at herself in the mirror, slowly extracting charming charisma from out of herself; and with confidence and ease, she would calmly walk up the stairs with a calculated bounce and turn to the audience with enthusiasm. Then her act would begin—not pure magic, but jokes and an amiable sort of conversation, then the miracles would reveal themselves one by one.

Every night she did this. And every night she sat in her dressing room, with a little coldness sitting in her stomach.

What if she stumbled? What if she faltered? What if the bright smile she carefully spread across her face crumbled without her knowing? What if the coin in the palm of her hand slipped? What if they noticed her fingers moving oddly, slowly bunching up a multicolored cloth? What if they called her out, laughing not with her, but at her incompetence?

Trucy Wright feared, above all, failing in that little magic act in the tiny shady place that is known as the Wonder Bar.

It's not what it seems. It was not the embarrassment that would cover her cheeks in crimson like autumn falling to the ground in reds, but the feeling that would fill her body.

Magic is all about confidence.

And if she lost that, she had nothing. If she slipped up in that act, she would lose that confidence. Then Trucy would look at herself in the mirror once more, trying to crack a smile that radiated brilliance. But instead, she would see the faces of the crowd looking either disappointed, embarrassed along with her, or laughing with ill-intentioned mirth. They would _know_.

The next time she walked on stage, whispers would curled around her ankles like a soft wind. They would watch, more carefully than ever, and notice _things_, _tricks_, _secrets_, she didn't want them to see. And they would murmured, _Ah, so that's how it's done! Simple, really!_

Then it would be all over. Her world would crack like a chick emerging from an egg.

Somehow, failing in that little act would be a symbol or a foreshadowing of the failure she would strive to avoid so desperately. It would be a self-fulfilling prophecy, the kind that _seems_ as though it could be stopped, only to have you walk into your own trap.

Every night, sitting in her dressing room, Trucy cracks her smile as natural as Mr Gavin's. Yes, Klavier Gavin was well-versed in this sort of pretending. He was a performer, after all. And he was a professional, something the young girl wants to be when she grows up—but wait! Would she have to be one…now? Yes. Because a professional has no doubts, no turmoil. A professional never falters. Never fails. If she failed now, she would never climb back up.

And every night, Trucy's act is perfect.

Her fear makes it so.

**Pheenie**

He had been studying and studying hard. Phoenix Wright, student of Ivy University, though being the goofy person he was, pulled all-nighters.

He wasn't the consistent hard-worker, or the exceptional slacker—he was simply the sort of person that had what some might call foolish stubbornness that could be fuelled into determination, the kind of determination that lasted long after the initial flame had burned down, in a kind of crazed frenzy to conquer whatever obstacle was in his way.

This determination was made by his passion to become a defense attorney. Ever since that fateful mock trial they had held in class, he was made out to be the vilest of criminals (or at least as vile as you could ever contrive to imagine when in the fourth grade) and Edgeworth, and then Larry, had stood up for him.

It was Phoenix's dream to become a great defense lawyer—an ace attorney—and protect the innocent when no others would stand to take their case.

But that goal was violently derailed when he had met _her_.

Down in the courtroom library, studying of course, and nothing seemed to get into his head. Phoenix wasn't naturally studious, and the boring court proceedings and formalities were just out of his grasp. So, as he looked up from the impossibly small text, he caught a glimpse of an angel among the shelves upon shelves of tomes.

As he looked up, a small breath escaped him as her beauty filled his eye. There was no doubt—and his intuition was almost _never_ wrong, least of all at this moment—that this petite girl was goodness personified.

Twin red tresses were tied along her head, emphasizing the subtle shape of her skull, and neat curtains of the same glorious crimson fell upon her shoulders gracefully. She wore a delicate pink outfit that so very perfectly suited her demure demeanor, with a rose parasol to match. Her eyes were dark and—clichéd as it was, it was perfectly true—soulful.

She met his awed gaze with a slightly surprised look on her face, and then her lips turned up in the most delightful way. With an elegant gait, she approached him—_her_, who was more of a goddess than a mere mortal, approached _him_, the geeky goof-off. It must have been the hair.

It went wonderfully, love at first sight. For the both of them, apparently.

But after that she kept asking for the charm back. That pretty necklace with a glass bottle on the end that he boasted about to everyone. And he was deeply afraid that if he gave it to her, she would leave him.

Not the Dollie was that kind of girl—it was just him being irrational. An irrational fear.

So he kept it with him all the time and whenever she asked for it back, he would… refuse. But he always wished that one day, she would not ask for it back—irrationally, again, Pheenie felt that she would never, ever leave him if she didn't ask. Was it called… symbolism? _No, that can't be Wright. I mean, right. …Damn puns._

It was a silly little fear that stayed with him like a squirmy worm inside of an apple. Phoenix detested himself for the distrust… not that it was distrust. Perhaps there was some tension when he had first met her, but that was when Dahlia had been a stranger to him. Then, through the months of being her boyfriend, he found that Dollie was cute, funny, charming…

There was tension today. But only because of Doug Swallow, he thought to himself.

Because Dahlia would always be Dahlia, Dollie would always be Dollie. And he loved Dollie, so there was no fear.

None at all.

**Nick**

He had made a name for himself over the years, the glorious years as a defense attorney. And through those years, he had met many people.

Mia Fey. His mentor, the 'Chief' as he always called her. (Not to be confused with 'Chef'—she cooked horribly, as he found out one day. Even her coffee was too bitter. When he joked about the coffee, though, she remained silent in a solemn, sad way. So maybe there was something more to that.) She was an amazing attorney—strong, resilient—and a great teacher—patient, and taught all the right things. One of the most important things he had learnt from her: Always believe in your client.

Maya Fey. Mia's younger sister, and a burger-addict. (Not to be confused with burglar, though she was bordering on being a thief.) Despite her happy-go-lucky, childish attitude, Maya had been through a lot (though she may not look it) and had coped with it exceptionally well for a teen. Perhaps it had to do with her being a spirit medium? That she saw death differently from others? No, Phoenix decided. She took death as seriously and as hard as everyone else; Maya just had a strange inner strength that came out when it counted.

Maggey Byrde. Persistent bespectacled woman with terrible karma. (Not to be confused with hirable mama. What does that even mean?) Maggey plows through life like a bulldozer. Upcoming cliff? No problem, just take the detour. Except with her, the detour would probably lead to a giant ravine that she would have no choice but to fall through. But right at the bottom of the canyon, she would just grip the stones and climb up bit by bit.

Miles Edgeworth. Prosecutor extraordinaire, and possessor of frilly coats. (Yes, you read it right. Cravats and all.) A cold demeanor doesn't stop him from firing up in court. Even though he was a prosecutor, he still wanted nothing but to find the gem of truth. There was one time in court that he objected to a guilty verdict, only to find he had nothing to say. (Then he objected again to a more fruitful result, but that's another story.) Countless times when he worked with Phoenix to buy time, or simply bounce possibilities off each other.

And… Godot… Also known as Diego Armando. It was heartrending. One man, sworn for revenge, blinded by rage and loss. He did not deserve what he got—he didn't deserve the appalling deed that he was perhaps destined to do; he didn't deserve tragic life that he had lead, sleeping while his lover waited for Godot, and waking when she had died; he didn't deserve to hate himself everyday, to wish for death but yet compelled to carry on living, living without _her_. Godot had said he was running from the truth, that it was Phoenix who truly made Mia proud and not failed to protect her. It was half-true. He probably had made Mia proud, and wasn't to blame for her death. And yet, it wasn't fair that Mr Armando beat himself up everyday about it, not facing the facts, refusing to turn to the harsh light of day.

Nick had met many people. People who made him _think_, about life, death, dreams… People who helped him as an attorney and as a person. People who could make him laugh with uncontrollable glee or weep with irrepressible sadness. And these people made who he was today.

He had met these people because of what he did—clearing charges and setting innocents free, finding the truth and delivering justice. He had met these people because he was a defense attorney. Phoenix would not know whom or where he would be today if not for them. And he knew that they had changed him not only for good, but for the better.

Because of this, he would wonder whom or where he would be today if he were not a defense attorney.

Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, the possibility frightened him.

Not the casual fear of the unknown—the strange, alien feel the whole world would have, staring out of windows that are his eyes and unable to arrange the way the world is. As an attorney, he helps people, he condemns people, he _decides_.

Just thinking about it made him shudder, cold seeping up through his spine.

But it couldn't really be counted as a fear—after all, Phoenix was already a defense attorney. So he couldn't… _not_ be one, because he already was one.

A trifle. A trivial little thought gone awry.

Nick, tall and strong, faced the world with his back straight, ignoring the tiny tingle of ice in his back—because he feared nothing.

**Phoenix Wright**

Phoenix Wright, Pianist Extra Ordinaire. He has changed over the years from a more goofy, carefree, yet passionate young man to a (still young) man with a knack for master-planning and a flair for the dramatic. How could things have changed so quickly? One moment, an attorney. The next, disbarred. Succinctly put.

He has lost his badge and his rights; however, he has also gained many things. A daughter, an apprentice—a family.

How can he lose them? How can he lose more than he already has? He will have nothing left if he does.

So Phoenix is careful, languishing in the background and dropping hints (much like his old mentor Mia did back in the day) to the duo, unknowing siblings. Though Trucy and Apollo have a proper family by blood, he will remain.

However, by other means, they may be taken away.

Phoenix Wright fears this.

It isn't just the losing of their company (though that certainly plays a part); it is the knowledge that _they_ are the new generation and he is the past, and that if they are torn away from him… somehow the law will be further away than ever. In this way, it sounds selfish, him still clinging to the law enforcement route instead of moving on, but he knows that he _has_ to stay on somehow.

However, even if Apollo manages to clear his name, Phoenix doesn't know if he will retake the bar exam.

Inside he knows: his time is over. He is now a puppeteer in the shadows, laughing at their mistakes whilst swelling in pride. It's time for Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney to step aside for Apollo Justice and his assistant, Trucy Wright.

So he will, and yet he will hold them close. He is their family, he tells himself, reassures himself.

Has he always been so dependant?

Or is it just because he has nothing left to fall back on? No badge to hide behind, to present, no 'objection' to scramble up some last-minute evidence…

It doesn't matter.

All that matters is the truth.

And the truth is that he is scared.

What if they leave? What if he lays forgotten in some dusty corner?

Phoenix Wright is scared of being left behind.

A/N THE END. Anyway, I don't know if you guys managed to identify something I tried to incorporate into the 'Pheenie' bit, so I'll clarify—Dollie is used to refer to Iris, and Dahlia to… Dahlia. Though Phoenix is unknowing, of course. And the tension in the first time he met her and that day was because it was Dahlia there and not Iris. Ha ha. Not that I'm an Iris/Phoenix shipper. Dunno if Phoenix Wright's fears were accurate, and by that I mean HoboPhoenix. By the way, I'm still accepting requests for yet another bonus chapter should you guys want it. (P.S. Reviews are much, much welcome!)


	4. Bonus 2

A/N Yet another bonus chapter. This one is dedicated to again, **Mistress**, and **Anonymous** for suggesting other characters to do. 

**Pearl Fey**

Pearl had always been surrounded by people since she was born—an assortment of short-lived friends, a collection of acolytes, a small clan of villagers. But these were mostly temporary; groups of friends that changed and shifted, disciples replaced by new disciples, villagers flowing in and out of her company. The one who was most constant in her life was her mother. Morgan Fey.

Her mother loved her. Pearl believed it.

Pearl believes it.

But her mother was separated from her, by the people Mr Nick worked with (or that he met while doing his job, anyway) called the po-leese. She knew what her mother had done—and then she tried to get Pearl to do something for her, something that would hurt Mystic Maya.

Morgan Fey loved Pearl. A strange sort of unclear, murky emotion; subjective.

Maya, on the other hand, was clear-cut. She cared about Pearl. Caring entailed loving as a prerequisite.

A clear difference between the two.

Because _why_ exactly did Morgan love her? Because she was her daughter? Because she was who she was?

No.

Because she could carry the legacy her mother failed to obtain.

Because she could bear the burden her mother struggled to achieve.

Because she was born with a blessing, a gift, and never a curse.

Pearl had strong spiritual powers. Not materialistic, technically. But a shallow, callous reason nonetheless.

Mystic Maya _cared_ about her. Because Pearl was her cousin. Because they'd been through so much, they supported each other. Because she_ loved_ Pearl as a character, a kid sister.

With Maya came others who cared, as if her black-haired cousin was a talisman of hope. Mr Nick. And with Mr Nick came others, more and more!

But what if they stopped caring?

No, worse, what if they continued, but for all the wrong reasons?

Pearl had experienced _that_ before. It was nasty.

What if they cared… because it was their job? What if they cared… because they had no choice? What if they cared… because they wanted to make use of her?

Pearl fears this, especially because she will keep on clinging on to them, unable to let go. She was frightened, extremely frightened, when she thought she had lost her powers—why? It didn't matter all that much to her… but that was exactly it. Her mother cared about her powers. Despite this empty love, Pearl loved her mother all the same.

The young girl never did learn how to let go.

And when, if_, they_ let go…

She keeps clinging like a spoilt child…

Love, never truly returned.

Malnourished.

But don't worry—she's sustained with fear.

**Larry Butz**

Alone in his apartment, with a strange assortment of objects in the cluttered room.

A few picture books with bright and endearing covers; a blue security guard jacket; a tattered recipe book tossed across the room, the page open at 'Samurai Dogs'; a silver, ridiculous-looking suit with odd tentacles looping from its back; and many, many sad mementos carried from failed relationships.

Unwanted items, kept only for… nothing.

Because these items were nothing to him! (Deep inside his mind, of course, he knew that the 'items' he was referring to was mainly the bulk of gifts from his various hookups.) No one wanted him—wait, that wasn't quite right. He wanted no one!

Who were these people to toss him away? Who were they to discard him like some unwanted rag doll? Who were they to think that they had some power over him? That they could manipulate his emotions—influence his actions—force him into depression, or denial—change his mindset to life or to alter his values?

If he seemed a little dull, a little dim, a little naïve… But everyone had their flaws. (Not that the aforementioned were one of his. If he had a flaw, it was enjoying life all too much and casting a shadow over Nick and Edgey.)

But everyone needed someone. Even someone that needed no one. He was that someone, of course. But if everyone needed someone, then someone needed everyone, and he was that someone who needed no one, which in turn would mean that no one needed someone—but all that was overturned by the 'even', meaning he was that someone who needed perhaps not everyone, but another someone.

A contradiction!

(And by this statement, one could deduce that Larry was surrounded by lawyers all too much, which warped his unique intellect into an even stranger one.)

But if he overturned his previous statement (see paragraph 4), then it all made sense, adding in the sense of denial of course.

So it seemed they _could_ warp his thinking.

The ones who dumped him and left. Why did he still have to have this… influence from them? Why did they have influence over him?

Unable to change his own life, unable to move on without remembering the day she left, when he cried out to his two best friends.

Will he never be able to take control of his own life?

More importantly, or more potently, will he ever be able to have someone by his side without the nagging insecurity below his happy-go-lucky exterior?

Will he ever rid himself of this fear?

But the fear is just—he will always be left alone.

**?**

Is… someone there? Does she… hear something? Where… is she?

Who is… she?

She doesn't even know what she looks like anymore, what she sounds like, and indeed, who she is.

Perhaps it was the personalities that she was forced to adopt, or the multitude of disguises she was forced to don, but the fact remained that she didn't even know her natural hair color.

She can barely remember her real name. Or maybe what she's remembering is yet another pseudonym buried far into her past.

Because she had many names. Calisto Yew, Shih-Na… And with each name came a story. A character, a look, a voice, a set of traits that slowly began to erode herself, who she really was under all those falsehoods.

For the sake of convenience, she began to refer to herself in her own thoughts as the person, real or fake, that she was masquerading. At this very moment, she was Shih-Na.

And she was beginning to think she would be Shih-Na for a long time now.

Beside her was a man, a wolfy sort of character, wearing an unusual expression on his face. There would usually be a languishing grin, or a self-satisfied smirk, maybe even a grimace or an open mouth of shock, but now… there was nothing. No twist to his lips, just an odd faraway expression that made Shih-Na apprehensive.

She was in a police car, not as a part of law enforcement, but as a criminal.

She had been caught.

Shih-Na wouldn't be pretending to be someone else for a while.

No cackling laugh; she was not Calisto Yew. No professional seriousness; she was not Shih-Na. Except she was. She didn't _know_ how to be anyone else, not anymore.

"Damn bullet."

Shih-Na glanced at the Interpol agent who had placed his hand gingerly on the bandage on his leg. Without insisting to go to the hospital, he had only wanted to make sure Shih-Na got to the penitentiary.

Shi-Long Lang. He was an idiot. That bullet that had caused his wound had been meant for her, when she had grabbed that fake Yatagarasu girl (or rather, the wannabe Yatagarasu girl) and held her hostage. And like the fool he was, Lang had taken the bullet for her. Didn't he realize that she_ wasn't_ his subordinate?

Feeling a bit out of place, Shih-Na remembered to stay in character. "You should have gone into the hospital." Then she remembered that they knew she was a traitor. Nevertheless, as she had mulled over earlier, she would still be Shih-Na for a long time now.

"And give you a chance to break out? Not a chance." Lang paused, then a more familiar wolfish grin spread across his face. "Lang Zi says: Give your prey a chance and they'll slip right under your claws."

"Is that so." A bored tone.

The duo fell into silence, but her thoughts filled the awkwardness.

Shih-Na could only be Shih-Na now; the people she met knew only Shih-Na. Miles Edgeworth, Kay Faraday; they knew Calisto Yew as well, but the character of tacit silence seemed more fitting than a dramatic hyena laugh in prison.

She was Shih-Na.

But both behind and in front of Shih-Na is a dark uncertainty. Questions, more questions.

Who is she?

Perhaps just one question, but one that holds much significance.

Shih-Na is standing, quite precariously, on a thin, tiny platform amidst a sea of black. One step forward, one step back, or indeed one wrong move sideways or otherwise could get her landed in a torrent of question marks and darkness.

But there it is, the night creeping up at her ankles, threatening to pull her in. As a particularly stubborn one snaked up her leg and tried to reel her in, it left behind the same question, the same uncertainty, the same _fear_. A fear that leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

Who is she really?

A/N One word: Review. And I'm still accepting requests if you guys want more.


	5. Fey Special Bonus

A/N Another chapter. Thanks all, for supporting me all the way through. This chapter is dedicated to **icecreamlova**, who suggested a do a chapter about the Feys. The rest of the Feys, I mean. An interesting idea, to say the least, so here you go. For research for this chapter, I went on Ace Attorney wiki for canon details, and also read **icecreamlova**'s highly underrated **Screenplay **for characterization. Go and read it for a bit; it's great. 

As for the rest of you and your suggestions, I haven't forgotten about you guys! I got a load of suggestions from the last chapter, so I can't do all of them in just one, or even two, chapters. All in good time. Also, a note about the quote below, the first ever I've put in a chapter, or even a story. I put it in because… I couldn't help it, especially as I was writing Dahlia's. I did The Merchant of Venice last year on the side, and though it isn't really the best of Shakespeare, I loved Shylock. You can pretty much apply the quote in all the characters for this chapter; Mia's opinion of Dahlia, Morgan of Misty, Dahlia of Mia, and Iris… well, except Iris.

_He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason?_ –Shylock, **the Merchant of Venice**

**Mia Fey**

Mia had dreams, and she was the type of person to keep on going and work insanely hard to achieve those dreams. But even with the remnants of idealism she retained from her innocent youth, she knew that hard work didn't always translate to firm results. That was simply the way of life, however.

But there was one dream in particular that she had made possible.

It was because of that dream that she was standing in this very situation.

Dreams… who said that all of them were sweet?

Why couldn't there be nightmares?

It was a nightmare she was standing in, of course. And the demon in the center of it all, a deceiving little minx with a devilish smile and a glare of hell.

How many lives had Dahlia Hawthorne ruined?

How many times could Mia have stopped her?

It was her own helplessness she detested, to sit and watch as everything… everyone she… _loved_ was taken away.

She had become a defense attorney for the exact opposite. To protect, not to let it play out right in front of her eyes, just out of reach.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

He's dead.

There was no use in saying "He's gone". What value did that have? How demeaning! To say that he had gone, he had left, he was absent—oh, how much that would debase the weight of death!

Terry Fawles was dead.

She could have stopped it. She was too late.

And so began a campaign to bring Dahlia Hawthorne down. Not just herself; she had one ally.

It was dangerous, too dangerous.

Meeting with Dahlia Hawthorne was insanely dangerous.

_But wasn't that what we were aiming to do all that time?_

Well, yes, but…

_We succeeded!_

Not yet, not yet.

_Exactly. Hence the meeting._

It's too dangerous.

_It's what we worked for all this time._

I'm going.

_No._

Then why is it that you get to go? At the very least, let me go with you!

_No._

What, it's too dangerous?

Then he left.

It _had _been too dangerous, and the risk prevailed.

No… no… no…

A nightmare. Only she couldn't wake up.

No, that wasn't right. It was _him_ who couldn't wake. Would never wake—a slim chance. But a hope she clung onto with all her might.

Diego haunted her dreams—this time, they were sweet. And it was like Mia was living in a world of dreams, good and bad. Every time she woke, she cursed reality, and every time she slept, she cursed dreams because they would never come true.

Idealism fled. She still fought for her clients, she couldn't _not_ do so, but now she knew that bad endings lurked at every corner, the justice didn't always prevail. That mere perseverance or a fiery heart couldn't always deliver good verdicts.

Dahlia… Dahlia… Dahlia…

Since she had come into Mia's life, nightmares ruled the realm. Fears that never existed before were presented as subtly as a knife drives through a victim's chest.

The last card the demoness played was the one that killed Mia the most. The one that hurt her more than death or pain or betrayal ever could, because it was a combination of all three.

Sleeping, looking as though he had already passed through the realm of the living. Pain, stabbing her in the heart many times over, a wound that would never heal. Betrayal, because he let it happen. Why couldn't she have gone in place of him, or at the very least, with him?

Fear that had been fulfilled.

A new fear takes its place.

Mia would wait until the end of the world for Diego Armando to wake. Nothing would stop her from that.

The question was… when would he wake?

And in the darkest corners of her mind, a little voice whispered to complete the question.

_If ever._

**Morgan Fey**

Morgan was not one to be trifled with, for the very fact of her determination.

There was nothing, nothing at all that would stop her from exacting revenge. From dealing harsh and rightful retribution to those who _stole_ away what was rightfully hers.

Bonds, relationships, what do these matter to her? Though Morgan Fey knew connections were important to manipulate and make use of, it had always been hard for her to simper and pretend for the sake of the fools, the lower masses of buffoons who knew nothing of justice. And family matters were so tiresome; the right to make decisions that affected Kurain had been taken away from her, so why was she seated at the meetings of the spirit mediums, headed by her little sister, Misty?

Her little sister—detestable. Somewhere, inside, Morgan knew that there had been a time, long ago, buried beneath the weight of revenge, the burden of time, the ache of betrayal, however improbable and impossible it seemed, Misty had been Morgan's true sibling. It wasn't a friendship. It wasn't a hatred. It was a sisterhood. It was the bond that could only exist between two sisters—gossiping, complaining, arguing, bantering, joking, and realizing how similar they actually were, that the other was the one who knew the most about the sister.

But no. Morgan had been fooled, fooled by that stupid wretch of a sister. Misty Fey sneaked underneath her and swiped the position of Master. Misty's powers had always had a strange undercurrent of authority to them, like there was much potential yet to be explored, but Morgan had never paid much attention; she was the older sister, after all. The position of Master was secured. Or so she thought.

The train jumped its tracks.

A skip in time.

Maya Fey is now the prime antagonist. Misty is long gone. And now it is for the sake of Pearl, her precious daughter, that Morgan is forming plans in her mind.

If Misty could steal the position from her, surely Pearl, who was a genius, a prodigy in spiritual ability, could gain the position of Master.

And yet the world works against them. Bias, bias, bias. So Morgan will now work against the world.

The only problem is… without Pearl, she is nothing. Like a shadow of the past, clinging to the last of its honor, the final shred of hope, if the object of potential glory be removed, then all is lost.

Her gifted, wonderful, blessed daughter, Pearl Fey. (Usable. She can help Morgan get her revenge and sweep the bitterness from her heart. Morgan thinks it can rid herself of the darkness—only later, too late and too little, does she realize she is wrong. It will only blacken it more.)

Without Pearl, she is dead. No, worse than that. Without Pearl, she has no more face, no more honor to lift her head and face the world.

It is not love she feels—or at least, not true, motherly love for Pearl. It is love for power. Love for the feeling when both you and everyone else knows, recognizes your superiority. Morgan admits this; there is nothing wrong with that.

Pearl is _her _daughter. She owns Pearl.

Pearl is her puppet. The problem is that she has no power with no puppet. Therefore she has no power without Pearl.

Her fear is to have no power—but Morgan knows that she can gain power by any means. So it is no fear.

Her fear is that those means are taken away from her.

Her fear is the Pearl Fey disappears.

**Dahlia Hawthorne**

_Revenge is a dish best served cold._

A useful saying, but Dahlia wasn't sure if she followed it or not.

A stabbing. The first time she saw red in its true, beautiful form as it spilt from the traitor's body. Sweet. A touch of poison. Almost sparkling as it fell into the dark, bitter depths of coffee. No blood this time, not even a death, but the result was satisfactory nonetheless. An invisible killer. Lightning ran through his body as he convulsed jerkily. A death.

All these may not have counted as revenge; perhaps, to some, they were merely measures to stop past crimes from being revealed, but Dahlia knew. She knew that they were vengeful strikes at traitors who threatened to unveil her secret should they be allowed to do so.

But there was one instance where no one could dispute it was of vengeful intentions. Or rather, there would be an instance of pure vengeance. One that was sure to succeed.

The subject of this vengeance was Mia Fey.

Kill Mia Fey? No, no, _no_.

After all, the defense attorney was already dead.

It was testament to Dahlia's notorious habit that every single person who had once wronged her, or would soon do so, would _pay_ (and her threats were not empty) that she found a way to defeat Mia Fey.

Dahlia herself was dead, but both her death as well as Fey's was only a small hurdle compared to her elaborate plan. She would instead kill Maya Fey, Mia's beloved sister. What could hurt more than that? There was, she reasoned, no one else who could possibly hurt Mia more than that.

Mia Fey disgraced her.

As Dahlia thought about her plan, her mind jumped to the accursed attorney that had condemned and destroyed her.

Mia Fey.

Ridiculously, bumbling, smugly self-satisfied woman that thought she had gotten the better of Dahlia. Ha! Her complacency, she mused lightly with a smile that could never be identified as merry, would someday lead to her downfall. And that someday was coming very soon.

Oh, the exhilaration of _lying_! The red-haired beauty loved it so much she could never stop, even if it were not necessary. Then the adrenaline somehow morphed into a different, less jubilant kind as Mia cornered her. Damn… damn… damn… All her exits, excuses that she had crafted carefully so she could worm her way out were slowly being slammed down, even as she tried with some desperate, ravage triumph to stretch whatever credit she could muster from her lovely exterior. A distress that was tempered with a twisted ecstasy coursed through her body as her mind raced to possibilities that seemed out of reach. Mia Fey condemned her, then, to die.

For the so-called crimes Dahlia had committed. Oh, the idealism! Naivety, 'Pheenie' had probably learnt it from her. Was it truly a crime to kill something you hated? Not in her eyes.

Mia… Fey…

Again, the name echoed through her mind as the woman tried to halt it in its course, lest her hatred consume her being—not that it hadn't already. But if she couldn't hold a clear head, the plan may just fall to pieces…

Mia Fey was the stuff of nightmares. An old hag, desperate to prove her worth, and fools her way through clumsily, with mock superiority.

There were some things that were worse than death. Mia Fey was one of them—of course, practically _any_ person who had shamed Dahlia as Fey did was worthy of the title.

So if Dahlia Hawthorne had to choose one thing to hate, to fear, to revenge, it would be the one who humiliated her as Fey had. The disgrace would trace and follow even in death; was there really something worse than that?

To be shamed was indeed the most detestable curse one could ever lay.

And though Dahlia did not know it herself, it had also been the fear that gave rise to the insecurities Dahlia did not feel. It had been her fear in the days of life, of killing and of revenge.

And though Dahlia does not know it, it still is.

**Iris**

Iris's expression was usually one of a deer caught in headlights. It wasn't her fault—Iris just happened to have the sort of face that seemed so magnified and innocent that she just couldn't help it. And yet there was another person in the world whose features were supposedly exactly the same as Iris's.

Her twin.

Some people said they couldn't have been more different. When her sister's true colors were revealed, a death glare from that heavenly face, they had received quite a shock. Iris, however, merely exposed a burning determination under her mousey exterior.

Different, they said, different as can be.

Not so different, Iris thought.

Sisters that supported each other, helped each other—were they not like the other sisters of the world? And were they really so different?

The same demure appearance they held, the same acute determination they possessed, the same single-mindedness they had; the difference in character was that Dahlia _did_ things.

Iris didn't like things changing, because it meant Dahlia would change too. And she was always changing, so quickly that she was volatile, each emotion flicking past like a stream of bubbles popping at lightning speed. Iris tried to read her emotions, predict her next moves, and with practice she could, but when Dahlia had a dark cloud over her mind, there was no telling what the red-haired girl would attempt.

But Dahlia killed.

Innocent lives; maybe it was because Iris had been raised in such a place at such a time, but murder was wrong. But to Dahlia, it was right.

Nature or nurture? Dahlia and herself, having grown up in totally different environments… was it possible, just possible, that the reason for their stark contrast in personalities was the way they were raised? What they had been exposed to?

Had Iris's compassion been carefully nurtured, and Dahlia's stripped away? Had Iris killer instincts been drummed out of her mind, and Dahlia's fuelled by an insatiable revenge? Had Iris's plain personality been made, and Dahlia's sneaky disposition been essential?

They had needed different things to survive. Iris didn't need much, admittedly—under the kind Sister Bikini, she just needed an agreeable nature and faith. Dahlia was tossed from side to side, seeing what Iris never observed; the true ugliness of the world, and she conformed herself to that terrible picture. No, surpassing it. But only because it was what was needed to survive in a dog eat dog world.

Almost like evolution. No, that was wrong. What was the word? Adaptation?

But both Iris and Dahlia were pretenders. That much was obvious. How else could she have lied to Phoenix Wright for six months straight, acting… not meekly, but quietly demure? Both she and Dahlia looked out at the world—her, being incurably positive, and Dahlia being irrevocably condemning. But both their observations on the world had a weight of truth in them. Sometimes, sometimes Iris could understand her twin. That scared her. And it scared her that it scared her. Understanding cold-blooded murders.

Why ponder on Dahlia though? Why not just accept she was who she was, regardless?

Because Iris was normal. Normal. It was normal to think about these kind of things, marvel at similarities and ponder on differences.

_It's no use lying._

_No matter how good a pretender you are, you can't hide the truth._

Not even Iris. Not even Dahlia.

_You can't hide the fear._

Selfless, they called her.

_That silly, little fear._

_Well, at least that's _one_ thing about me that isn't clichéd. _

_Not a fear of losing my close ones._

_Nothing as noble as _that_._

The fear, buried so deep into her mind, under layers and layers of reassurances and expectations that she was overall a kind and bright person who wouldn't care about pittances like that. She couldn't even think it.

And yet, that thought hung in the air.

Fear.

Fear.

Fear.

Of what?

And Iris gathered her courage, and dared to look at her not-at-all caring-about-others fear.

(She could surely afford to have some thoughts for herself.)

Fear of turning… into Dahlia.

A/N Not much editing for Dahlia and Iris, sorry about that. I'll read it again next time, and if I am unsatisfied, I'll go back and redo. It's just that I want to get this out into the fanfiction world for both your sakes and mine. Toodles. (Okay, 'toodles' is a bit awkward. But still.)


	6. Gramarye Special Bonus

A/N I honestly don't know what to make of this chapter. I feel as though I'm out of practice, like I'm writing in a totally different style. Do give me your opinions. Also, I reread the last chapter, and agree with the reviewers that Mia is out of character. I didn't realize it at first, shamefully, but now I do. I'll tell you if I ever rewrite it. This is rather late, because I was writing a 'Villains Bonus' as opposed to a 'Gramarye Bonus', but then I couldn't decide whether I should do Matt Engarde or Redd White for the last villain. So… which one should I do? (I've written the others, though.) This chapter is shorter than usual.

**Valant Gramarye**

Life seemed to enjoy making a fool of him, and whatever fair fortunes he had once believed achievable were no more than a passing dream. He hadn't been born with bad karma—he had had it thrust upon him. Valant was sure that he could have escaped the gloom and doom with a little disappearing act from magic itself, pursuing, perhaps, a different profession, away from Troupe Gramarye, but he never had. That would be like slashing a blade across the fabric of his very life in order to prevent the blood and tears that would stain the cloth like a poison spreading through a body, unstoppable, incurable. Leaving magic behind would do more harm than good, more hurt than uncountable jabs of bad luck could ever do. On the whole, staying with magic had more pros than the obvious cons of being overshadowed and general tough luck at life—so like it or not, Valant was stuck with his luck, in the world of magic, deception, illusions, and everything that he could ever have hoped for. But magic was a double-edged sword. There was always a question of luck, of flipping a coin and knowing which side it would turn up, of shuffling a deck and drawing the three of diamonds every time. Perhaps Valant used all his good luck up in magic, and only the bad remained to ruin his life.

Lost in talent, lost in love—lost in _life_.

Then a little demon grew inside of his heart, irrepressible even by the most magical of miracles. A monstrous, malicious malady he could never be rid of, for it was the very essence of his soul, the darkness that was borne from the many moments of death he had suffered through life. Oh, he was forever destined to play the part of the tragic clown!

Then he had had enough, and when the opportunity crept upon him, he snatched it like a magpie spying a glint of glorious gold, salvation from the manacles of slavery that bound him to the tragedies of life itself. The little demon grew a little bigger—_Zak, Zak, Zak, Zak, Zak Zak Zak Zak stole your fortune stole your love stole your prize take it take it you can have it all just take his life and the secrets are yours for the picking for the taking take it pull the trigger you can do it finally you will have your precious magic_

The barrage of words melted into an almost incoherent waterfall of every bitter, dark thought he had held within himself, consuming him with a vengeance.

But he couldn't do it.

It was as simple as that, and Valant wasn't one to go straight to the point.

He couldn't do it.

Something made him bow down, leaving like a dog with a tail between its legs, appalled at what he had planned, knowing he could never be more than a backup, a shadow, a sidekick.

But now he could make it, and make it big. The stage was waiting, calling, whispering his name like the wind in the willows… _Valant… Valant... Gramarye._ Another chance had arisen. Seven years.

Just like how yellow was his lucky color, seven was his favored number. And it had never failed him. Seven years had passed. No—_**seven**_ years had passed. The magician could now ensnare the minds of the eager public with chains of illusions and wonderment that he would not easily relinquish, holding the glorious flames of magic in his open palms. It would be a sight to remember, a majestic display of magic with splendorous tricks sure to bemuse and befuddle all the world.

_Just release me this once, O cruel fate, and I shall forever be in your debt, for I merely wish to reap the reward of so many years past, and so many things lost._

That was all he needed, all he desired after countless falls from heights that matched heaven itself. And Valant could only hope that he would fall no more and rise to his rightful place in the stars of magic.

He couldn't help but feel, however, an odd sense of foreboding. A strange irrepressible instinct that his luck had triggered an unforeseeable event from so many years ago, that accumulated like the momentum of a thousand boulders, tumbling down the sharp cliff that he was scaling, and fell him once more. Perhaps it was irrational—but Valant had a dose of fear hidden in his topit, and he could only hope it was never let out.

_Let this performance be my first of many, releasing wondrous wizardry on those woefully lacking muggles. Let this performance free me from the chains that bind, from these _memories _and from this _sorrow_, this… _regret_…_

If he had a card in the game of chance, a single card, he would know, at all times, where it stood, and keep an extra one (as all magicians do) up his sleeve. If he had a choice in the matter of fates, he would, at all times, keep a failsafe by his side—but he had no such say.

This performance, he thought firmly, brandishing his scepter with resolution, will not be stopped at any costs. He gripped his scepter as though it was chock-full of his fear—his fear of his life, now balancing precariously on the pyramid of cards he had stacked, falling to pieces. This performance would seal his deal. This performance was essential. This performance _could not_ conceivably be thwarted.

"Well, this is a blast from the distant past," Valant said.

For standing in front of him was none other than Phoenix Wright.

**Zak Gramarye**

He hated it. He hated the kind of choice that left no one for the better, and everyone for the worst. He hated the thought of just thinking it through, facing the terrible truth, because then, the world would be so much worse.

Zak was a split-second decision kind of guy—you had to have your wits about you in the magic business. He was impulsive, but he could deliberate quite well, sorting out his thoughts, but in _that_ kind of choice… he honestly wished everything were clear-cut.

The man didn't like condemning anyone. Anyone who was his friend, that is. Zak could deal out revenge like a raging storm, but at the prospect of betraying his companions, he'd bite his lip and turn away.

But what if the choice was _needed_… now?

Then he'd make a choice. No question.

But what if someone else had to make it?

What if… he knew someone was lying? What if Zak thought the worst of their motives? And what if he just couldn't control the rising feeling of resentment?

Valant was on the stand, all smiles, accusing him of murder.

They were fellow magicians, of the same troupe, and protégés with the same mentor. There was no secrets, no deceptions, but Valant was there lying on the stand, and Zak knew Valant didn't actually believe what he was saying. Valant knew Zak was innocent, and he had framed Zak for murder.

And what a betrayal it was. Zak had to make measures to make sure that no matter what, he was not to be put in jail. And as the trial neared its end, he realized that he should've just given Phoenix Wright the damned diary page, and cursed his stupidity. _It's a forgery… I have his will right here. _If he had just given it to him, the case would have been resolved, or at least a day of investigation would be put into place! Zak cursed his own stupidity—he had been too engrossed in his escape, should Phoenix Wright fail (which seemed to be a definite probability), and had only been preparing for that moment. Ironically, his preparations were the very thing that brought the moment round.

The red-clad man _hated_ this. He had made the wrong choice, something he would wonder about everyday, doubting his judgments, fearing their conclusions. Knowing he could have averted entire catastrophes.

And he'd made the wrong choice, and Zak _knew_ that he'd have to leave Trucy. He _knew_ he'd have to go into hiding. He _knew_ he'd have to abandon everything he'd built, because he simply had to escape from prison, from a wrong verdict.

But worst of all, he knew he could have prevented it.

Worst of all, the catastrophe had _not_ been averted.

Worst of all, Zak knew _he_ himself had brought about the fulfillment of his ripe fear.

**Thalassa Gramarye**

Thalassa was a careful woman, one that never failed to consider everybody's opinions, emotions, and reactions. Those were easy to see, in any—or rather, her— case. That didn't mean she wasn't assertive, however. It only meant that she took her time making her choices—but once she had, there was no changing her mind.

She had faced some unusually hard choices in her lifetime. One was running away with Perry Formarr, a magician she had had the pleasure of meeting. She loved him, true, and she was sure he loved her (Thalassa had seen _that_ much in the way he moved, the way he talked, that way he… well, everything, really), and so she was determined to make a life with him—but Troupe Gramarye… she loved it too. The two loves of her life—not many people were fortunate enough to get two, but then again, not many people had the misfortune to have to choose one over the other. Or was it good luck enough that she even had a choice?

The brown-haired woman faced another conundrum now: again, in the lists of love. It wasn't right for love to be so convoluted. Perry had died.

For a moment, her world tottered precariously on its axis.

_Perry is dead_, she thought, a little more firmly, and swallowed. _He would want me to move on._ And _that _was exactly why she had another hard choice to make.

Valant and Zak. Zak and Valant.

It was all too clear, their affections for her, and she needed to make a choice, simply to resolve all this conflict. Whenever their eyes locked, she could sense sparks in the air. When she chose, she would make it or break it. She had to weigh the options, carefully, so no one would get hurt, least of all the bonds between the members of Troupe Gramarye.

Though young, she was far from immature—she was past the naivety of young love (its demise had been seen to with Perry's passing), and she was past the selfishness of grabbing whatever caught her passing fancy with no thought. She had to choose the one who would bring the most happiness and freedom to everyone in Troupe Gramarye in the long term. This choice was not some frivolous thing of a young girl's first attempt at true love, caught in some ridiculously dramatic love triangle—this was a young woman's choice at her future, and, ultimately, the future of magic, for Troupe Gramarye was the leading figure in magic.

This was a choice, but there would always be choices in life, and there would be other choices with more at stake than the continuity of Troupe Gramarye and the happiness of those concerned. Thalassa knew this, but it didn't make the choice any lighter. Reactions she could see. But feelings were hard. Especially in the lists of love. One mistake could cause Troupe Gramarye to fall apart in a final fit of rage and disappointment, or a slow process of the seams in the fabric pulling apart.

Zak could be explosive, and he was full of feelings, wearing his heart easily on his sleeve. His fire-red of a costume showed his nature all too well, with his emotions varying in extremities. He was proud, loud, talented, strong, and… well, besotted with her. She could tell.

Valant was arrogant, sharing a friendly rivalry with Zak, and was, in some ways, meeker. He could hide his feelings (though not from Thalassa Gramarye), and put on a mask, and was always smiling, even when life generally frowned down on him—and life _really_ had dealt him a bad hand. And he was besotted with her too.

She liked them both, Thalassa had to admit, and it was with both of them that she shared a crush—perhaps a little more on Zak's part. But… she was going to choose, not based on her preference, for she loved them both anyway. Who would react more strongly to rejection? Who would cause the Troupe to fall apart? Who would incur the most unhappiness in their little family?

Her father, Magnifi, was not a factor—though domineering, he loved his daughter, and would respect her choice. Zak and Valant were the main players in this. And Thalassa, of course.

Zak… he was so full of emotion, and so used to triumphing over Valant that it would not be wise to ignore him. But Valant had been the second fiddle for too long, never totally at the forefront despite his glamour and winning smile, and she could tell he resented it, though he never acted out, for the sake of Troupe Gramarye. It would be good for him to get a little of the limelight, to be top dog, to beat Zak in this game of love. Because Valant had lost for too long—he might just break, not being able to take the final blow.

Thalassa feared… making a choice. Just making a decision, because once she had, she wouldn't change her mind. She didn't know if this stubbornness was folly, but she was scared nonetheless. She loved people, she loved the feeling of belonging, she loved, above all, the feeling of happiness. She loved the feeling of those unbreakable close bonds, of friendship, of love, of family, blood or no blood.

Not making a decision in this matter would be not be fatal, but a serious wound, nonetheless, to the friendship of the Troupe, and tensions would escalate with their wooing. Making a decision could be fatal both ways, in neither, or in one of them, and Thalassa had no intention of choosing wrong. If she didn't choose, she reasoned, she couldn't choose wrong. But that wasn't an option.

There were no options left _but_ to choose, and it so happened that that decision was the very thing she feared.

**Magnifi Gramarye**

Magnifi Gramarye was old and his time was running out. If there was one thing he hated, it was loose ends. True, his own life would by tied up neatly by the end of it (though people would spread rumors and dig up secrets posthumously, but that would be of no concern of his for obvious reasons), but he liked the thought of simply _ending_ it with the thought that he had compiled everything into neat little piles. That he'd maintained so much control till the end that his own end would go _exactly_ as he planned. He would not be taken unawares by Death himself, but by his own doing. Under his own control.

So he set up a little plan, to tie up the last remnants of his life. To whom should he bequeath his art? Valant was nothing short of capable, deserving of something at the very least, but Magnifi would look not upon whatever losses Valant sustained, but whether it was truly fit for him. Perhaps. Nevertheless, it was Zak whom the old man favored. The man with more than a simple dollop of talent. The man his daughter, Thalassa, truly loved.

That was Magnifi's view of them both, disregarding the shooting incident (for it was well because his daughter survived), but he knew that he ought to give both a fair chance. The scales of his judgment tilted towards Zak, and he would take this into consideration—but ultimately, the choice was with his two disciples. A neat little test he set up.

But he wondered—would it truly be possible to maintain control right until the end? So many people affected one's life, subtly or not, so was it truly possible to adapt to it all? Magnifi wondered about this a lot, and he had in fact received a half-answer. No, it was not, but perfect control could be maintained by controlling those other lives as well.

And that was what he did.

Still, the reins got loose sometimes, much to his chagrin. Humans, after all, were not simply puppets. It was a sort of art to maneuver them round, play with their emotions. The most failsafe way was with some kind of leverage. Blackmail, in other words. Mere respect would not do the trick, though it would help a fair bit.

One could see Magnifi as insecure, but the man preferred to think it more like… being a king. He had a _right_. He was their master, after all, their mentor, while they were his protégés. He barely _forcefully _controlled anyone else, for his domineering presence alone would make them meek and obedient.

Fear was an odd little thing.

It was odd, because though he wanted to end everything very, _very_ neatly, he couldn't help but wonder—five, ten years from now… would they remember him? Would they remember the magic? Would they remember the wonder? Would they remember that golden age of magic, led by Magnifi Gramarye?

He supposed one thought of those things as death came closer and closer.

People fade.

Influence fades.

…Memories fade.

You can't control the world.

Oh, he _had_. Once upon a time, he had enthralled the world with his marvelous tricks and illusions, but that had faded as well.

And now, he was about to fade.

—And perhaps, so would the Gramarye name.

A/N Firstly, I hate Zak Gramarye. He is a jerk. Valant is my favorite character out of the lot, then Thalassa. Thalassa's and Zak's are quite similar, having to do with choices—but while Thalassa is afraid of making a choice, Zak fears the feeling of regret. Make of that what you will. I wonder… does Thalassa's fear sound a little childish? I tried to justify that. The end part of Valant was supposed to show how his fears were about to come true—after all, Phoenix had received the letter from Zak, which left Trucy the secrets of magic. Magnifi's a jerk too, but I prefer him to Zak any day. But still—I mean, he dumps his daughter randomly into Borginia to preserve Troupe Gramarye's reputation, and so Zak and Valant don't find out she's alive. And she has amnesia—how the heck is she supposed to fend for herself? Heh, I guess in the end Magnifi didn't tie up the loose ends by himself, but Valant went and framed Zak. To me, the old man is controlling, overdomineering, but loves Thalassa like nothing else. Which is weird, considering he ships her to Borginia. In my opinion, Thalassa's was the worst. 

As I said before, I have no idea what to make of this chapter, so… sorry if it's not up to scratch. And tell me what you think. The characters that I did well (in all chapters so far) were the ones that I _knew_ the best. The games I've most recently played are AJ and T&T, by the way… and the game I'm least familiar with is JFA. But if I _know _the character, regardless of which game they're in, I can write them.


	7. Villain Special Bonus

A/N Before we begin, shoutouts: **icecreamlova**, who suggested Manfred. **Princess of Monacco**, who suggested Manfred (again. He sure is popular!) and Kristoph. **Stefan-sama**, who suggested doing a character from **Rise from the Ashes**, and, two villains having already been put forth, I chose Gant. **Stefan-sama** also chose Matt Engarde as opposed to Redd White. EDIT: Okay, I had this chapter almost done yesterday, but I had to go out that day, and almost the whole of today, so I only got to post it now… Plus, I was waiting for more reviews so I could decide on either Redd or Matt. …It's Matt, by the way.

**Kristoph Gavin**

His goal within his grasp; atop his palm, sitting there idly, just _waiting_ for him to close his fingers upon it. And he smiles, light glinting off his glasses—it gives a nice, dramatic effect, he thinks—and he clenches his fist.

But a moment too late.

Swooping from beneath him, right under his nose, the prize he has long sought after—the prize of revenge. It slips through his fingers, as his face contorts in rage, as he realizes who has stolen it. It is none other than the subject of his revenge, Phoenix Wright.

Bars crash down, and he finds himself within the confines of a prison.

Revenge is out of his reach; he is foiled. He can do nothing but sit idly within the cell he has striven to furnish with whatever comforts he can wheedle.

But if anything's a comfort, it is the thought that Phoenix Wright still had not achieved what he wanted. The thought that Phoenix Wright remains disbarred, despite his efforts to pin the forgery on Kristoph—oh, yes, Kristoph knows what the spiky-haired man has been trying to work towards. He will meet nothing but dead ends; the German has made sure of it.

For he has ensured his safety by planting an ingenious time bomb in the home of a forger. With Misham gone, no leads will be left to that meddlesome fool. It will, he muses, open up another door for Wright to press through by allowing him to investigate into Misham's death, but Kristoph is confident that Phoenix's lucky blundering has vanished with his attorney's badge.

Yes, he challenges Wright even from within his cell. And though his challenge stands (never to be overcome), he cannot deny the fact that he sits inside a prison; or at least, his physical being is within it. He cannot break the routine of getting up, looking at the skimpy (though elegant, as he has made certain) meal for breakfast time, maybe a few visits—

Ah, visits.

From whom?

Phoenix Wright, a few times. In an effort to uncover more clues, naturally.

Some lawyers, shaking their heads, and knocking their knees—with fear. Simply there for some administrative purposes.

But there is one, one utterly ridiculous person who comes purely for—for want of a better word—_social_ purposes; personal reasons. To uncover the truth, as well as to set his mind to rest, to gain whatever solace he can find.

One foolish little brother.

Is it possible that his truth-loving brother could uncover his motives? Unravel the mystery? See through his ploys?

That brother visits Kristoph _because_ he is his kin, but also because of the truth. But, as Kristoph knows, if Wright cannot find it, the man who has been searching for seven years, what chance does Klavier, who only knows half the picture, have?

But by some warped idea, some crude reckoning, an errant thought borrowed from books and fools, Kristoph thinks that perhaps his prosecuting brother can.

It is not because Klavier has striven to convict so many people, as well as to seek out the whole truth, but because Klavier is his _brother_.

His closest kin by flesh and blood, bound together in an eternal spiral of life. Klavier may very well understand, better than the others, how his mind works. Then again, Kristoph knows that Klavier alone cannot do it—no, but he is an essential piece of the puzzle. Should Klavier possibly consent to speak to Phoenix Wright… then there would be a definite possibility of a lost game for Kristoph.

Losing is one thing Kristoph cannot tolerate, and he is a tolerant man, or a man practiced at appearing tolerant. Revenge is something that is burned deep in his soul, a thirst so strong even he cannot bear it. In most ways, he is a cool (or cold), collected gentleman—but in the presence of unbearable _idiots_ and _fools_, he can be very unforgiving indeed.

This is a hate, and such a hate is borne from the reputation he has, or had, to uphold. _Reputation is everything_. If he were to be defeated by some idiotic Cro-Magnon (and he cringes at the very thought), when he _knows_ he is so much superior to the person, the tarnish that would splatter upon his public image like a poison would take a very long time to burn off. So it is best to poison the offender first.

And the fear borne doubly from his reputation as well as his vengeful soul is the idea of executing the defense mechanism of poison—no, it is not killing. It is losing. It is losing to infernally inferior being that dare interfere with his perfectly organized state of affairs. It is losing control of the brother that once idolized him, turning towards him with a pitying, struggling expression on his face. It is losing his firm grip on reality, on his life, on his influence, on_ everything_ that he has worked so hard to build. It's the difference between getting assassinated outright, and killed _after_ you've realized you've lost.

It is losing in every possible way, mentally, physically, in an infinitely frustrating circle of unending humiliation.

In short (and Kristoph enjoyed summarizing those complex matters that spiraled into tangles of his own mind), his fear is losing.

**Manfred von Karma**

Perfection.

If there were just one word to sum up Manfred von Karma, it would be perfection. He was a von Karma, after all, and the one who had effectively _made_ the von Karma name synonymous with perfection.

Perfection in all areas—in the arts, with music (idiots, those who couldn't discern Handel, the pride and majesty, from Bach, the contrapuntal form and rich harmonies), in the hard math and sciences, in linguistics (a 'Guilty' verdict was the same in any language, in his opinion), in every possible skill, in every possible way, Manfred von Karma was perfection.

"Miles, straighten your cravat," he ordered, once he spotted the slight tilt to the young boy's accessory.

"Yes sir." The dark-haired teen immediately obeyed, carefully putting it into place.

Miles Edgeworth was the son of one Gregory Edgeworth, an idealistic imbecile who seemed to have felt it his duty to defame the von Karma name, to cast doubt on Manfred's perfection. Gregory Edgeworth had gone with the swift vengeance of a von Karma (it had been a perfect coup), but the old German wasn't done yet. He adopted the young Miles and raised him under _his_ values, the _right_ values, the exact _opposite_ of that infernal Gregory Edgeworth. Yet another vengeance, and vengeance was indeed sweet. Miles had turned out to be quite the bright boy, and was on his way to perfection.

_Do you see it? What I did for your son that you would never be able to do._ A smirk unfolded itself across the old man's face, as the solemn young boy scanned the room intensely, his eyes narrowed just a bit.

"The prosecution is ready, Your Honor."

"Prosecutor von Karma… that boy… I'm not sure if he's old enough to look into a murder trial…" A timid interjection.

"Enough!" Manfred snapped. "I assure you, he is intelligent enough not to cause any trouble in a court of law. Let us begin! The defendant is guilty."

"I see no room for doubt. The court declares the defendant…"

"O-Objection!" the defense attorney shouted. "I haven't even stated my case yet. Heck, neither has the prosecution!"

The judge sighed. "I suppose… perhaps I have been too hasty…"

Twin glares were directed at the defense attorney, and he shirked back slightly at Miles' and Manfred's fiery eyes. "The case is simple," von Karma began.

In two minutes, and exactly seventeen seconds of testimony, the trial was over.

The verdict: Guilty.

Yes, every verdict would be a guilty verdict, because a guilty verdict was a perfect one. And how _dare_ Gregory Edgeworth dare taint his reputation! At the beginning, von Karma was repelled by the innocent boy. But over time, over, perhaps, prolonged exposure with perfection, Miles had changed and turned into a respectable, von Karma boy.

Still, the fact remained that no matter who might accuse him (though he would make sure that _no one_ would accuse him of anything), he was perfection. There was no uncertainly, insecurity, or fear of imperfection—why fear the impossible, after all?

The fear was that some insufferable _idiot_ would come along and _break_ everything he had built, surpassing even what Gregory Edgeworth had done.

Edgeworth.

He was the cause of it. That trial, and then the elevator. The most delightful idea had occurred to him that day, and like a true von Karma, he carried it out perfectly. But as the statute of limitations drew near, instead of feeling increasingly reassured, he began to feel increasingly annoyed. Annoyed because it was in this period of time that his actions mattered the most, that one integral block in his complex structure of plans would not be taken out of the picture, essentially breaking apart his secrets at the last possible second.

Manfred was perfect. His plans were perfect. Everything about him was perfect.

But perfection can be thwarted by dumb luck, which was what Gregory Edgeworth had. Not to mention impertinence.

Someone with absolutely no skill, no logic, no common sense. Someone with both bad (for having to pit himself against Manfred von Karma) and good (for having enough luck and chance to possibly, unthinkably do what Edgeworth had done) _luck_ (which Manfred detested, because luck was chance, and even a single chance was unacceptable for perfection).

There were people like that in the world. Precious few, and even in that precious few, even less could have exceptional luck on the day itself. The day that mattered.

But Manfred von Karma overlooked nothing.

So in that flawless mind, lurked a little fear. Just a little, he thought, and it counted as nothing, _especially _in the face of his perfection.

Or so he thought.

**Damon Gant**

"S-sir…"

Gant gave a pleasant smile, clapping his hands encouragingly. "Now, Oxley, I heard you've mixed up the evidence. Thoughts?"

"Sir, I'm sorry! Just… I…"

Damon surveyed her with those unblinking green eyes. The unfortunate officer was caught in his intense gaze, struck with fear like some small rodent in the eyes of a hissing snake. "You didn't mean it. I know."

Oxley allowed herself a little ray of hope. The evidence had been essential, but they had managed to salvage it, so perhaps the Chief would let it slide. "Yes, sir, I didn't! And we got it in the end, so…"

Damon shook his head. "Yes. But I'm afraid you'll have to bear the punishment of your mistake. Oh yes…"

The officer had heard tales, but never having experienced it herself, she hoped it was an exaggeration. But even she knew it was a slim hope—she could often hear the sound of the dreaded organ all the way from the first floor, and sometimes even from the outside of the building. "Sir, p-please…"

Gant toyed with a prong of white hair with an absent look on his face, as though considering. But when he spoke, his voice was absolute. "Stand right _there_, and don't move." The latter command was unnecessary; the sound of the organ alone would root her to the spot, never mind the look on Gant's face.

Then it began.

Damon played well, and, most importantly, _loudly_. The Chief had, of course, gotten used to the sound itself, and thoughts, sharp as razor blades, shot through his mind as he took the opportunity of some excellent music to think everything through.

Through a little cunning, he had groped his way to the top, finally becoming District Chief. Of course, he thought through the blasting notes, that wasn't all. Lana Skye was _very_ important, allowing his to keep control over the rest of the city's law enforcement. His circle of influence was wide, and practically nothing stood in his way.

Practically nothing.

Almost nothing.

There were some loose ends that he'd attempted to tie, though nothing would truly silence them save death, which would raise far too many questions and was unnecessary. No, Jake Marshall and Angel Starr would not speak, simply because they could not. Goodman could be dealt with. In fact, if any of them came close, they could _all_ be dealt with. Lana Skye was another loose end, but he had tied her up pretty well, and nothing could compromise that.

Had he left any traces?

Had he left any clues?

Had he left any hints?

Just one could be his undoing.

Everything he had worked for—his position, his reputation, his influence—could all disappear if one of those people spoke. (Or if someone else randomly figured it out, but that point was pretty much moot.)

Gant had left nothing behind. He was sure of it. But there was always that possibility…

Oh yes. He had, in his carelessness, missed out one other person. Miles Edgeworth. He had been the prosecutor on _that_ case. He could figure it out, though there was practically no chance of that happening.

Everyone and anyone that may prove a threat would prove a very minor one. And yet he had left not one, but _five_ people to give a clue. Collectively… could they…? No, it was unlikely that they would group together. In any case, those vulnerabilities either had no credibility, were being blackmailed, or didn't suspect. Still, if only there were a way to deal with them all in one fell swoop. …He'd keep that in mind.

This incessant worrying was well worth the trouble, Gant felt. It kept him on his toes. It kept him occupied. It meant that he had one less thing to worry about… or not, since he was always worrying about it. There was no helping it—it was, after all, something he feared.

Gant knew this, so he did all in his power to stop this fear from coming true, as all people do. No one would want to face their fears, because if they did, it meant they were no longer frightened, he reasoned. Preventing such a fear, though unlikely, may not be hard, but it was hard in the sense that he needed to lay rest to his uncertainty.

Damon suddenly realized the air was free of the loud chords of his organ, and turned to Oxley. "You may go."

He turned back to the keys, knowing that the officer would stay there for a moment, stunned. Oxley had faced her fear, whether or not it was her worst fear. That didn't mean she was immune to it, because she hadn't _chosen_ to face it. If Gant _chose_ to face it, it wouldn't, as he had always thought, be his fear anymore. In that sense, the only thing to fear was fear itself, as they said.

Still, facing his fear wouldn't vanquish it, simply because it would be idiocy to face it.

So he sidesteps, parries, eradicates any threat that holds fast against his stronghold of power, that proves capable of making his fear bear fruit.

**Matt Engarde**

People were easy to fool. They wouldn't look, not properly, past the exterior if you conveyed a proper scatterbrained, _harmless_, airheaded attitude. You were just another quirky movie star, well meaning but bumbling. That was how you acted—the second part of pretending was the appearance. You had to appear all that fitted the character. _That_ was a problem, mostly because of those unfortunate scars. So he had soft bangs hanging gently over the right side of his face, with the other side combed carefully back. Add on a hapless expression, and a foolish grin—and you got Matt Engarde.

An actor had to know how to pretend. He had to know how to fool the audience. But most of all, he had to know how to fool himself. To submerge himself into the character so deeply that every movement was flawless, every speech precise, to make himself completely in character by _being_ that character—that was _true_ acting.

Matt Engarde was an actor, and he did all of the above. Of course, it's hard to lie to yourself all the time, which was what he needed to do, but he maintained a façade so well that he barely needed to even think about it. The problem was that he didn't fool _himself_ completely, something that while not necessary, would be a definite pro. In his mind, he was perpetually replacing 'dude' with a much…_ nastier_ word. But that didn't matter much, Matt supposed, because they were all idiots, and could hardly be expected to know the truth—to know the _real _Matt Engarde.

And yet—and there was _always_ a 'yet'—Engarde couldn't help but feel a little insecure, becoming the centre of a murder investigation. He could get off. So long as Wright _believed_, so long as his little friend, sister, assistant, or whatever she was was kept hostage, Wright _had_ to keep fighting, whether it were for Matt, justice, Maya Fey, or… anything, really.

But Wright was as idealistic as he was naïve. If Matt were to somehow let slip his true personality, that attorney would be in a dilemma, lowering Engarde's chances of an acquittal. That Fey girl was a failsafe, but he didn't like to rely on any Plan B's… which was why his foolish demeanor had to be kept till the very last moment. Of course, if he felt it wise to discard it, if he were fed up enough (with, of course, the assurance that Wright wouldn't stop defending him)… Well, that would be different. Very different.

But if someone were to _discover _it!

That would be different too. In a very bad way.

Frankly, the thought made Matt Engarde shiver.

It wasn't an unfamiliar fear to, well, any actor. The fear being, of course, that they simply weren't convincing enough. That their 'Oh… help me' fell flat, or their cry of pain sounded more like a strangled squawk from a chicken that had eaten one too many elephants. It was an inborn fear, one that couldn't be quashed by even his own self-importance, his presumption.

"Er… Mr Engarde…" the guard said hesitantly, breaking through Matt's thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I'm a really big fan… Do you mind…?"

Matt understood. He shifted his stance, readying himself, before crying out:

"Grasping Ocean Spin!"

He executed the move perfectly, as he had done over the course of the last 289 accursed episodes, finishing off with the signature:

"Nickel Petal Slash!"

The guard watched on in awe, as Matt flashed him a goofy smile and straightened. He gave thanks to Engarde with a wide grin, and returned to his post by the door, glancing at Matt intermittently.

That guard could be fooled, just like every other person in the audience. People could be fooled, if the fooler were skilled enough. Matt was skilled. But sometimes, when he looked at people, he could see an unsettling perception—nothing, of course, that could make them suspect him, but an odd intuition nonetheless. And naïve as Wright was, he had this perception. It was odd, because at the same time, he held a blind belief to his clients, but Matt wasn't complaining about _that_.

It was people like Wright that looked at the world sideways, upside-down even, instead of the proper means. And his acting was like a tall wall stretching in front of him, an excellent cover for proper people who saw the world straight and nicely arranged. But just edge a little to the left, and in the peripheral vision, and a little darkness seeped out.

Not yet though. No one had uncovered him yet. And he intended to keep it that way.

His intent was so strong that that insecurity turned into a proper fear of being found out, of his acting somehow failing him.

It was the fear of being seen as himself.

A/N Kristoph, to my mind, is a little like Dahlia. His fear, that is—and his personality in general. Ha ha, he refers to Klavier as a 'foolish little brother'. Now, where have I heard that before? In no less than two places, of course, and not exactly restricted to AJ. I think Manfred von Karma is funny. I can't help laughing when I read it, for some reason… Must be hysterics. I haven't played Rise from the Ashes for a while, so I made do with a summary online. (On a side note, it was a last minute decision that Oxley be a female. And yes, I didn't mention swimming. Oh no!) Then again, I haven't played JFA for a while either, but Matt Engarde was easier than I thought it would be. (I still used the Ace Attorney wiki as reference, though.) I came up with the ridiculous names for the moves by staring at the picture of the Nickel Samurai. I loved writing this chapter. 

I don't have anymore chapters planned after this, since I didn't have any specific requests, and nothing I really want to write, so for now, this will be set as **completed**. Actually, I haven't written a request yet, which was to pick my favorite one-time witness (or something along those lines), but I haven't thought of it yet. I may write it next time round. Of course, suggestions are still accepted, in which case… well, I'll write more.

Review!


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